


The Birthday Paradox

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Cats, F/M, Gen, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 05:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16549877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: In a room of just 23 people, the odds of 2 of them sharing a birthday are 50:50…





	The Birthday Paradox

“Okay, so.” Sam puts his hands down flat on the scored wood of his stolen desk. “Friday night after the show we’ll—”

“Oh, we can’t do Friday,” says Debbie.

He scowls up at her. “Why the fuck not?”

“It’s, uh, Ruth’s birthday.”

“Oh.”

Silence reigns for an awkward thirty seconds. Debbie’s immaculate eyebrows arch. “We could do Saturday instead?” 

“Right. Sure. Yeah.”

He roots about his papers, discomforted, until she rolls her eyes and asks the obvious question.  

“Are you… okay?”

It’s not the kind of thing they have to ask very often, both of them usually perfectly transparent to the other. Like a pair of housecats. Just about able to tolerate being in the same room, and good at giving the other space when they come in hackles raised. Their claws generally reserved for other people. Which is probably just as well, given the amount of fur that would fly should they ever turn on one another.  

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly. He makes the mistake of catching her eye and sighs. “It’s her actual birthday on Friday?”

“Don’t you have all of our birthdates written down on those consent forms you made us sign?”

“I’m not Klaus fucking Kinski, alright? I don’t remember that shit.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. Forget I asked.” He tries to handwave her confusion away, but she’s damned if she’ll be dismissed like that by him.

“Fine. Yes, it’s her actual birthday on Friday. Are you…what? Wanting to buy her a _present_?” If she sounds incredulous it’s because she is. The idea of Sam giving enough of a shit about anybody else to go and buy a gift is laughably ludicrous.

“No.”

“Well, what then?”

“Jesus _Christ_. Will you just—? I mean, can you not—?” He stutters to a stop, scowling; realising he’s going to have to spill. “Because it’s my fucking birthday, too. Alright? Are you happy now?”

She blinks. Of course, Sam must have birthdays. He moves through linear time like the rest of them, despite his efforts to remain firmly stuck in his Seventies heyday. It’s just hard to think of him in the same context as cake and candles.

“Oh.”

He is shaking his head. “Don’t, don’t fucking tell—”

“I won’t. Any anyway, nobody’s going to care.” It comes out more harshly than she intends; she can see it stings from the sudden droop of his moustache. “I just mean: we’re all too old to give a shit about birthdays. Apart from Jenny.”

“Right,” he says, flatly. “We done?”   

“I will… make the arrangements for Saturday,”

“Great. You do that.” He’s making a show of taking out his cigarettes rather than look at her.

“Fine,” she says, determined to have the last word.

* * *

He slides open the door to his balcony, fumbling for the carton in his shirt pocket again. It’s a real Vegas sunset outside, the sky a lurid pink. He pulls out his lighter and hears the chirrup.

“Not this again,” he says, cigarette wobbling. The little white cat jumps down onto the concrete from the balcony above, winding herself around his ankles. Against his better instincts he pets the thing, and she starts purring like a thundercloud.

He sighs. It’s a sad fucking thing to have to admit, but it feels nice there’s _something_ in the world that’s glad to see him.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says, rubbing his thumb across her little bullet head. Somehow, she purrs even louder; batting at his hands when he stops. “Yeah, yeah...”

She tries to run inside when he’s finished his smoke, nosing at the door as he puts his hand on the glass. “Hey, no.” She chirrups up at him again, intentions clear. “ _No_. I don’t want fucking fleas. Okay?”

_Purr-purr._

He sighs again. But he’s always a sucker for a woman who won’t take no for an answer.  

* * *

“Hey.”

He looks up from his seat on the bleachers, half-watching Cherry and Carmen plan a match. “Oh, hi Ray. How’s things?”

“Good, man, good. A little bird told me tomorrow is an important day for you.”

Sam groans. “Was this bird named Debbie?”

“I can’t reveal my sources.” He smooths down his goatee. “Is it a big one?”

“Oh, no. But thanks for flattering me.”

Ray grins. “You have plans?”

“Ah,” he squirms, “I mean, it’s a Friday night in Vegas, right? If you can’t find a good time you’re just not looking hard enough.”

Ray purses his lips. “Sure, but it’s a birthday. You’re not inviting friends into town? Or family?”

He swallows. “Well, you know, they’re pretty busy with – with school and shit.” It sounds pathetic, Ray looking at him with something like sympathy in his eyes. And he can’t stand being _pitied_ like this. Fucking Debbie. Why she couldn’t just keep her mouth _shut_ _—_

“Well, I’ve been waiting to invite you to the monthly poker night,” Ray continues, oblivious. “Sounds like this Friday’s a good fit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Eleven o’clock in the Sinatra Suite. Unless, you know, your girls decide to take you out instead.”

“Ha,” he snorts, “I fucking doubt it. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s a fifty dollar buy-in and last time I barely made it out with my shirt.”

Sam bares his teeth in something like a grin. “Sounds great,” he lies. 

* * *

Something sharp bites into his neck, dragging him up from the depths of dreamless sleep with a yelp—  

It’s the cat. Curled on his chest, digging her claws into him for reasons known only to herself. “Ow!” he says, grabbing hold of her to stop her doing it again. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

She merely purrs in response, as if this is all perfectly normal; trying to lick his face with her rasp of a tongue. 

“Jesus Christ...” He wriggles upright, finding his cigarettes on the night stand, lighting one. It’s a little after five in the morning. Which means he is officially fifty-two years old.

It’s a funny thing, but the older he’s gotten, the more his thoughts turn to his mother on this day. After all, she was the one that put all the work in. He just turned up, fat-headed and late enough to make everything a real ordeal. Starting, it seems, as he was destined to go on.

The fat little cat curls into his side, as he finishes his cigarette and tries very hard not to cry.

* * *

The lighting box door opens, noiseless, and Ruth is framed in the lintel. “Hi,” she says. Still wearing Zoya’s face but dressed in a button-up shirt and jeans. The sight of her like that does something complicated to his chest.

“Hey,” he replies. “Happy birthday.”

She bites her lip and looks at her feet. Still, she’s smiling. “Thanks.”

“You have fun?”

“Mm-hm. Sheila has a contact at _The Aladdin_. We got to see all the animals.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Mm. Sounds great.”

“We’re all going for a drink. Do you… wanna come with us?”

No, if he’s honest. He’s sad and consumed with a horrible kind of nostalgia; thinking back to this day five years ago, fifteen and thirty. Counting all the ways he’s screwed things up for himself, lost every good thing he ever found.

But not Ruth. Not yet, anyway. Why not spend an hour or two in her company before he loses all his money in a poker game? There are worse presents he can give himself. “Sure,” he hears himself saying. “Which bar did you have in mind?”

“Oh, Ray said we could use the member’s one tonight.”

“Really?” Jenny’s party-planning skills are clearly better than he gave her credit for.

He follows Ruth down the stairs and sticky-carpeted corridor, to the door with the Members Only sign. She pushes it open and they are hit by a wave of noise: fourteen variations on “SURPRISE!” and a dozen party-poppers exploding at once, leaving them both covered in paper streamers. 

“What the fuck is this?” he says, stupidly. The home-made banners make it clear enough, one at either end of the long table loaded with party food. HAPPY BIRTHDAY RUTH says one. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM says the other.

“Sorry man,” says Ray, coming over to pass him a glass of champagne. “I couldn’t stop them.”

“Jesus.” He shakes his head but takes the glass. “And no poker?”

“No poker,” confirms Ray. “But I did manage to get us some other entertainment…”

The doors at the back of the room open on those words, and a literal circus enters the room. Fire-eaters and jugglers, gymnasts with spangled hoops and spinning plates. He vaguely recognises some of them, performers from a show at their sister casino.

“Thanks,” he shouts over the din. “I guess.” He catches Ruth’s knowing gaze. “And you can stop that right now.”

She presses her lips together, compressing her smile. Eyelashes fluttering as she makes up her mind about something; he recognises the tell even if he has no idea what she’s debating internally—

“Happy birthday, Sam,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek.

And there are too many people in the room for him to do anything other than swallow the sudden lump in his throat; to hope the sudden heat in his face will be attributed to the fire-eaters.

“Yeah,” he manages. “As these things go, it’s not so bad.”


End file.
